White Russian - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 11) Read online

  About WHITE RUSSIAN

  Just when you get out…

  Former Chicago cop Jack Daniels thought she’d left her former life behind. She’d traded her badge for a toddler, and her lifelong pursuit of heinous serial killers for a boring house in the suburbs.

  …you’re pulled back in.

  Then Jack sees some pictures. Pictures of men who are supposed to be dead. And once again, against the fierce insistence of her husband, Phineas Troutt, Jack reluctantly straps on her gun and goes hunting. Hunting for the worst of the worst.

  Jack treks across the Great Plains, searching for a modern slavery ring, on a collision course with three of the worst villains she has ever faced.

  But Jack, and her irritating buddy Harry McGlade, will face them, and much more. Because they’re prepared to go to hell and back to rescue an old friend.

  The trick will be getting back in one piece. And—spoiler alert—they don’t.

  WHITE RUSSIAN by J.A. Konrath

  What are you willing to lose?

  WHITE RUSSIAN

  A Jack Daniels Thriller

  J.A. KONRATH

  CONTENTS

  White Russian

  Begin reading WHITE RUSSIAN

  Other recommended titles

  Joe Konrath’s Complete Bibliography

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  WHITE RUSSIAN

  2 ounces vodka

  1 ounce coffee liqueur

  1 ounce heavy cream

  Pour vodka and coffee liqueur over ice into a rocks glass. Float cream on top.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE USA

  MANY YEARS AGO

  Tara, half her husband’s age and tanned the color of saddle leather, glanced at her Cartier watch. The diamond-tipped minute hand was creeping up on three o’clock. She was going to miss Jeopardy, and the accompanying pre-dinner martini. A double tragedy. To make this situation even more unpleasant, her post-lunch martini had almost worn off, and she was suffering the company of a worthless moron.

  “It was just a hamster,” Tara stated, letting her lack of interest seep into her inflection.

  The teacher—young, plump, with one of those round faces that no gym could ever fix—wore an expression so serious it almost made Tara laugh. They were discussing a harmless behavior problem, not anything as serious as a death in the family. Or, god forbid, bankruptcy.

  “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation, Mrs.—”

  “Do not call me Mrs. Tara is fine.”

  Christ, Tara hated being called Mrs. She hated it almost as much as she hated being a mother. But when you marry old money, certain things were expected. Tara could live with the stretch marks, the inconvenient pregnancy forever scarring her tight body. She could live with the quick, feeble attempts that passed for lovemaking, with a flabby, grey husband more than double her age. But why did she have to attend these damn parent/teacher meetings? The school refused to let the nanny substitute, for some bullshit reason. If they’d lived in a better school district, with a better class of people, no doubt the nanny would be allowed to take care of these petty disciplinary issues.

  Tara crossed her legs, Dolce & Gabbana draping perfectly over thighs that could still turn heads. “I’ll buy the school a new one. How much can the damn things cost? A few dollars?”

  “The cost isn’t the issue.”

  “Then, for god’s sake, why am I here?”

  The teacher’s fat face sagged, her jowls jiggling. “This wasn’t an accident. I believe the twins… they killed Fluffy intentionally.”

  Tara frowned, noting the big toe protruding from her Ferragamo sandals had a chip in the French pedicure. “I’m sure they were just playing with it.”

  “They took pictures.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  The chubby fourth grade teacher reached into her desk with all the drama of the President pushing the button to launch a nuclear strike. She set something down in front of Tara.

  Tara snorted. “That’s a plate of spaghetti.” She was about to add, “you stupid moron” but caught herself when the sauce and noodles rearranged themselves in her brain, registering as blood and guts.

  Her stomach clenched and Tara quickly looked away. “The twins didn’t do that.”

  “They were caught with blood on them.”

  “Maybe they found it that way.”

  “Blood on the bottoms of their shoes.” The teacher appeared ready to cry. “From… stomping… on Fluffy.”

  Tara almost snorted again, because Fluffy was clearly no longer descriptive of the mangled rodent in the picture. Flatty was a better name.

  “They could have stepped on it accidentally. And took pictures because they’re curious.”

  “This isn’t normal childhood curiosity.”

  Tara’s hackles rose as naturally as if she’d been born entitled. “Are you telling me my children aren’t normal? I didn’t know you’d acquired a psychiatric degree since our last meeting.”

  The teacher slumped in her chair. “This isn’t the first behavioral issue we’ve had. There’s the hitting.”

  Tara made a show of rolling her eyes, a gesture that regularly put little people back in their place. “They were hitting each other. They’re twins. That’s how they play.”

  “A split lip and a black eye isn’t playing. If they’d done that to another student, they’d be expelled.”

  “It’s just sibling rivalry. And I don’t need you telling me what’s normal. We pay a shrink ten times your public servant salary to make that diagnosis.”

  The barb was intended to sting, but the teacher’s face only registered concern.

  “They won’t respond to their real names,” she continued. “They only answer to Tom and Jerry. Like the cartoon cat and mouse.”

  “Dr. Rabinowitz says it’s a phase they’re going through.”

  “And speaking gibberish? Making up words?”

  “It’s their own special language. A lot of twins do that. Most of them, in fact.”

  Tara wasn’t sure if most was correct, but she’d heard it was common.

  “There have been other incidents. Last week, I sat on a tack that someone placed on my chair.”

  Tara kept her expression neutral, but the thought of this overweight, untalented wage slave getting poked in her ass amused the hell out of her.

  “Did you see the twins do it?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone else?”

  The teacher hesitated, then said, “The other students… they’re afraid of your children.”

  This was getting ridiculous. Tara sighed the same sigh she used to get her way with her husband. “There hasn’t been a single incident involving other children.”

  “I’m aware of that. That’s because they avoid Tom and—I mean, your kids. At recess, no one plays with them. During class, no one will pair up with them for art or science lab.”

  Tara glanced at her watch again, making no attempt to be furtive.

  “Do you have… pets in the house?” the teacher asked.

  “We bought them a dog. A purebred German Shepherd that cost a small fortune. He ran away last summer.”

  Tara still had no idea how the beast got off its chain. It had been a bad dog, anyway. Always growling at the twins.

  “Other pets?”

  “We had a beautiful salt water aquarium in my husband’s den, but the fish kept dying. They’re very difficult to keep alive, you know. And a kitten, which accidentally drowned in the toilet.”

  There was also an iguana
, but Tara had no intention of mentioning it. That was an honest mistake, born of curiosity. The twins had insisted they thought iguanas could fly. Why else would they throw it off the roof?

  “Do they play with matches?” the teacher asked.

  “Of course not! My husband spanked them both and took the matches away!”

  Another serious look. “Harming animals and starting fires could be indicative of a bigger problem, Mrs., uh, Tara.”

  “Their grades are fine. We have absolutely no problems when they’re at home.”

  Plus, they were both taking adult-strength doses of Ritalin. Something this stupid teacher didn’t know about, because it was none of her business. But everyone knew it was impossible to misbehave on Ritalin.

  “I’m only bringing all of this up out of concern,” the teacher said.

  “The only concern I have,” Tara narrowed her eyes, “is the quality of the teaching staff at this school.”

  The teacher sat up straighter, as if someone had jammed a rod up her ass. She busied herself with organizing some papers on her desk.

  “Well, thank you for coming in, Tara. I should inform you that if there is another incident, Principal Stephens will be sitting in on the meeting.”

  “I doubt there will be another incident. And I don’t believe I’ll be seeing you again.”

  Tara stood up, unaware of how prophetic her words were. Five nights later, while her husband was away on business, Tara died from third degree burns. The police report attributed it to smoking while removing her nail polish with acetone, a highly flammable solvent.

  The twins corroborated that story, claiming that their mother had been sneaking cigarettes, even though she’d quit over three years earlier.

  It was a closed casket funeral, but the twins somehow managed to get the lid open, leading to the casket tipping over.

  Their grief counsellor said it was a normal, healthy reaction to such a terrible loss.

  Their grief counsellor was wrong.

  MONTHS AGO

  SOMEWHERE

  He opened his eyes to a world of pain. Everything hurt.

  But being in pain meant being alive.

  He was on his back. Immobile. Bandages covering his body.

  He tried to move his arm.

  Couldn’t.

  Not because of an injury. But because he was handcuffed to the bed.

  “Nurse?” he called, his voice a painful rasp.

  “No nurses. This isn’t a hospital.”

  He turned, and saw a familiar but scarred face occupying the cot next to him, similarly handcuffed.

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know yet,” the man said. “But it’s bad.”

  “How bad?”

  The man frowned. “Bad enough that we’re both going to wish we hadn’t survived Mexico.”

  FORT MYERS, FLORIDA

  JACK

  For the first time in my life, I had a life.

  I was in such a good mood that I didn’t even mind getting a call from my ex-partner, Harry McGlade.

  “Hiya, Jackie. How’s things?”

  “Wonderfully boring. I feel great, Harry. It’s truly a joy not to be involved with anything dangerous.”

  “Good for you. I’m glad. Now I need your help with something dangerous.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  “You didn’t even hear my pitch.”

  “I don’t care, McGlade. I’m out. No more police work. No more detective work. My guns are in storage. The only cases I’m taking are cases of beer.”

  “You know I’ve got this blog, right?” he went on, undeterred.

  “Yeah. I read it all the time,” I lied.

  “What do you know about human trafficking?”

  “I know enough that I’m not helping you.”

  “Slavery is still a big business, Jack. Do you know that it’s estimated that there are more than thirty million people enslaved today? And we’re not just talking third world. It’s happening right here, in the good old US of A.”

  “Tragic. Heartbreaking. Terrible. I mean that. And I’m not helping you with any cases.”

  “Remember Mexico?”

  That hit a nerve. “Of course I remember Mexico.” Some good people had died south of the border, helping me out. “Are you calling in a favor?”

  “No. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “This doesn’t sound like a favor.”

  “What if I told you,” McGlade said, “that someone we thought was dead wasn’t actually dead?”

  I sat up in my chair so fast I spilled my coffee.

  “What are you saying, Harry?”

  “I’m on my way to your place right now,” Harry said. “I’ll tell you in person in about ten minutes.”

  Then he hung up, leaving me to wonder if Harry was talking about an old friend…

  Or an old enemy.

  SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA

  YURI

  The Cowboy wore a balaclava and a black leather Stetson with human teeth around the hatband.

  The balaclava was a polyester microfiber that covered the neck, mouth, and nose, like a ski mask. Embroidered on the front was a realistic image of a human skull, making the Cowboy look like a skeleton with eyes.

  The teeth on the hat were human, glued onto the band in an ever-widening mosaic. Some had fillings. Some were cracked, because there was a learning curve to the extraction process and it had taken a while for the Cowboy to get it right.

  The Cowboy had many talents, but dentistry wasn’t one of them.

  The Cowboy always wore a black Outback duster jacket, a black button-down shirt, black jeans, and black crocodile boots with silver spurs. On a still desert night, when the LeTourneau was parked, you could hear the spurs jangle from fifty meters away.

  Which was the point. Costume, theatrics, performance; all orchestrated to maximize fear in the prisoner.

  The naked prisoner in the Punishment Room, his wrists bound to a ceiling chain with plastic riot cuff restraints, certainly appeared afraid.

  When the Cowboy first began working for Yuri, there had been no costume. Just the unadorned Stetson. But Yuri had created the uniform based on one he knew well, from his days in Minsk, leading the death squad. When carrying out missions, they wore grotesque masks meant to terrify victims.

  Fear was one of several currencies Yuri used. And it was highly effective.

  Pain was another method of persuasion. But it only worked short term, while the pain was being applied. It was effective as punishment, and to break wills and crush resistance. Yuri knew this, from both ends of the cattle prod.

  But pain compliance wasn’t effective with slave labor. It was simple math. To constantly administer pain to thirty workers would require a full staff of slave drivers. Space was limited, and more men meant more living quarters, more necessary supplies, and less room for product. Burns and welts required healing time, which was time not spent harvesting. What was the point of having slaves if you weren’t working them constantly?

  So Yuri had to maximize the impact of limited enforcers, therefore maximizing worker output.

  That required fear. The thought of pain, the dread of punishment, was a more effective motivator than the actual pain.

  Unfortunately, in order to accomplish that, slaves had to occasionally be yanked from the harvest to get them to understand. And, sometimes, they had to be discarded, as a lesson to the others.

  “Your output is unacceptable,” Yuri told the chained man, speaking up so the GoPro video camera mounted to the wall captured every word. Yuri had been living in the US for over a decade, and his English was excellent, but he hadn’t been able to shed all traces of his accent. He could mimic an American when required. But allowing his Belarusian roots to show seemed to be more frightening, for both the current subject, and those watching. That, coupled with his size—Yuri was a solid two hundred and eighty pounds, standing six foot six in his combat boots—was usually enough to scare anyone into complia
nce.

  The prisoner didn’t respond. He was probably too terrified to open his mouth. Not that he had any choice in the matter. An open mouth only required a simple tug.

  “I’m out of patience. And you’re out of teeth. You know the rules. Out of teeth, out of chances.”

  “Please,” the man begged, showing his bare, red gums. “I didn’t mean to pass out. If I only had more food.”

  Food, like sleep, was kept to a minimum. It was cheaper to buy new slaves than it was to feed them adequately. Besides, Yuri had seen men far more emaciated than this one do far better work.

  “Too late. You’ve been replaced.”

  He nodded at the Cowboy, who drew the black revolver from the black gunslinger hip holster so fast that the naked eye couldn’t even see it. In a fraction of a second the shot was fired and the gun was holstered again.

  It never failed to make Yuri smirk. As a child, his only exposure to America had been bootlegged videotapes of old Hollywood Westerns. He’d always thought of the USA as a country full of armed sharpshooters and desperados who would kill you just as easy as looking at you.

  And now he had his very own cowboy on payroll. Proof that the American dream was attainable by all. Even immigrants. Even former KGB.

  The slave, missing the back of his head, hung limp by his wrists. His skull poured out brains like oatmeal from a bowl.

  Yuri turned to the camera. “I hate having to remind you all of the consequences of insubordination. The rules are simple. You can eat and sleep if you make your quota. If you don’t, the Cowboy takes a tooth. When your teeth are gone, the Cowboy takes your life.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Break is over. Get back to work.”

  Yuri shut off the camera, his arm twitching in a spasm. He stilled his shaking hand by making a fist until the tremors stopped. Once it did, he consciously scratched at the scar tissue beneath his shirt, then silently cursed that chertovski ublyudok, Lukashenko, and spat on the floor of the train.